


Simple Gifts

by kuzibah



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Hanukkah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 19:06:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16181312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuzibah/pseuds/kuzibah
Summary: Mitchell, George, and Annie celebrate the holidays. In very different ways, as it happens, or maybe not so different after all. Not sure where exactly this falls in the series timeline, probably pre-Series One, as Nina is not in the picture.





	Simple Gifts

George had thought that Mitchell would have had his back on this one. He really did. But when Annie had stepped in front of the telly one night during _Eastenders_ and announced that they ought to get a Christmas tree, Mitchell had ignored George’s squeak of protest and declared it was a lovely idea, and he’d be sure to check around the area for a tree lot that didn’t look too pricey.

Annie had fairly bounced out of the room with happiness, and as George tried to formulate an argument against a tree Mitchell had turned to him with a smug expression.

“Such a simple thing, George,” Mitchell said, preempting any objection. “And look how delighted she is.”

George peered through to the kitchen, where Annie was humming “Joy to the World” to herself as she arranged plates in the drying rack. 

“Don’t forget,” Mitchell went on, “she’s at the house most of the time. Surely we can put up with an ancient Druid symbol that the Christians co-opted when they set about converting Europe for a few weeks, don’t you think?”

And George had sighed, resignedly, and resolved to ignore the whole thing.

~~~~

Of course, living in close quarters, and wanting to be good housemate, he couldn’t _actually_ ignore the whole thing, which is why he’d been dragged along (not literally, but nearly) to the parking lot of a nearby firehouse. A burly fellow with curly hair and red suspenders greeted them.

“What sort of tree were you looking for?” he asked.

“A nice bushy one,” Annie enthused. “But not too bushy. Straight and nicely shaped, and no bare patches. And needles that won’t poke your fingers. And it should be fresh, so it won’t start dropping needles until after New Year’s.”

The fireman grinned. “Well, sweetheart, if we had trees like that, we’d certainly sell a lot of them.” Then he laughed heartily at his own “humor.”

Mitchell gave him a stiff smile in return, while George let himself be distracted by the sight of a family trying to lash a tree twice as tall as their car was long to the vehicle’s roof. 

“Let me show you what we have,” the fireman continued, leading them down an aisle crowded with seemingly identical trees, pointing out the virtues of each one as he went. The ordeal took far longer than George would have suspected. Clearly the firemen of Bristol were all noted botanists, seeing as how they went on about the attributes of this conifer or that spruce, but eventually Annie settled on a tree she deemed “perfect.” Mitchell and George both winced as they opened their wallets to pay for it.

~~~~

In a way, it had worked out that Owen had been a complete plonker about the house after he’d killed Annie. Mitchell was often pleasantly amazed by what had simply been left behind, to be brought out by Annie at the moment of need. Picture hooks, an egg slicer, bug spray, three 40-w bulbs, a bus schedule, and a 6-foot USB cable had all recently materialized from storage… somewhere. So Mitchell wasn’t surprised to see that shortly after he and George had plopped the tree in a bucket of water and secured it to the wall at six points with lengths of twine, Annie had brought out three cardboard boxes marked “Xmas.” 

Strings of colored lights were first, and Mitchell and George struggled to wrap them around the tree under Annie’s artistic direction. That done, the two left her to unwrapping the delicate ornaments from their tissue paper and headed off to the Shakespeare for a pint.

“A Christmas tree!” George griped as soon as they were in the street. “My grandfather must be spinning in his grave!”

“Honestly, George, what’s the big deal?” Mitchell said. “No one’s asking you to line up for Holy Communion. It’s a decoration, nothing more.”

“Easy for you to say,” George said, though Mitchell was relieved to note he had calmed down a bit. “It’s like the whole world goes Christmas-mad for six weeks a year, and if you don’t worship Santa you’re made to feel like some sort of freak.”

“So this is a Jewish thing?” They’d reached the pub, and Mitchell held open the door for George.

“No, it’s not a Jewish thing,” George protested, heading for their usual table in back. “Well, maybe a little, but since you celebrate Christmas you don’t really understand what it’s like to be assaulted everywhere you go by these symbols of something you don’t believe.”

“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” Mitchell said as they took their seats and signaled for the barmaid.

“Right. Vampire,” George said. “But you did.”

“Not really,” Mitchell said. “Certainly not the way Annie is celebrating.” He turned to the barmaid and ordered two brown ales. “The holiday has changed a lot in the last century,” he went on. “When I was young, Christmas meant you spent the day in church, praying for forgiveness. Even once you got home for supper, it was only a matter of time before the priest showed up. Then it was back down on your knees while he blessed the family and the roast went cold.”

“So why all the Christmas cheer?” George said.

“I told you, for Annie,” Mitchell said. “For her it’s all about the decorations and the food and the TV specials. What does it hurt?”

“I suppose,” George said, sounding unconvinced.

“Plus, it’ll be nice to do something fun together besides watch the telly or sit around here. Cheers!” he added as they took their drinks from the barmaid.

Both drank a few minutes in silence.

“It’s just… it’s not my… my thing, now, is it?” George said. “I’m used to different traditions. It’s not natural for me to… to… open Christmas crackers, and listen to the John Barrowman concert on the radio.” 

Mitchell visibly shuddered. “God forbid,” he said.

George took another draught of his ale. “I should be lighting candles,” he said quietly, and Mitchell regarded him for a long moment before grunting agreement and going back to his own drink.

++++

When they returned to the house, the only light inside came from the decorated tree, warm and golden. It reflected off the myriad decorations, all glitter and mirrored glass, filling the room with slight shimmering movement. Annie was tucked in her chair, arms around her knees, tea (of course) on the floor beside her, a smile so joyful on her face that George instantly forgave her the entire ordeal.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she said. “I just love this time of year.”

“Me, too,” Mitchell said, laughing and dropping onto the couch. George slid in beside him.

“We should get hot chocolate,” Annie said brightly. “That’s more seasonal, isn’t it?”

“How about mulled wine?” Mitchell suggested.

“And dinner!” Annie went on. “We should do a proper Christmas dinner. A nice big turkey…”

“I like parsnips,” George said.

Annie and Mitchell both turned to stare at him.

“Really?” Mitchell said.

“What? They’re a traditional English dish, aren’t they? They always served them for the holiday meal at Uni.”

“Then we’ll make them,” Annie said enthusiastically. “What’s your favorite, Mitchell?”

Mitchell smiled and leaned back. “Mashed potatoes, with lots of gravy,” he said.

Annie smiled, too, and turned back to look at the tree. “I like desserts the best,” she said. “Fruitcake and plum pudding. Oh! We should bring the table in here for Christmas dinner. Right over by the fireplace.”

“It’s still weeks off, Annie,” George said, not complaining exactly, but close to it.

Mitchell kicked him in the ankle. “Yes, you should pace yourself,” Mitchell said.

++++

Annie knew she should pace herself like Mitchell said, but there was just so much to do. While the boys were working,, she pored over the one cookbook they had in the house, recipes collected from hospital employees and sold as a fund-raiser that George had brought home. But there was a section on “Celebrations and Special Occasions” that had several dishes that peaked her interest. Still, as she read more closely she feared many of the recipes might be beyond her.

For instance, what was a “ricer” and where would you get one? What was a “Bain-marie”? How did you “fold,” exactly? And where would you buy a “bouquet garni,” and what would you do with it?

She closed the cookbook, resolving to try it again when her head was more clear, and drifted upstairs to the glorified closet she thought of as her own room. It was half-filled with boxes and bags, items stored away long ago. She sifted through them, shifting stacks around until she found what she wanted: a heavy shopping bag from “The Contented Sheep” boutique.

She carried it down to the living room and began to lay out the contents. 

She had learned to crochet as a girl, picking up the basics, along with her sister, from a very patient great-aunt. She made a few potholders and dishcloths, then put it away until her sister started trying to get pregnant. That had apparently reactivated the crafting genes, and the two of them began again, creating tiny socks and caps in anticipation of a baby’s arrival. 

She’d also done a wool cap for Owen, and a scarf for her brother-in-law. She was relieved to find the Xeroxed patterns for both still in the bottom of the bag. She also found half a dozen crochet hooks in various sizes, and four big balls of yarn. Perfect.

She worked until late afternoon, and as it got to be towards the hour when the boys came home, she gathered it together, hid it under the sofa, and went to make some tea.

++++

If there was one thing George knew about Christmas, one thing the culture had emphasized over all else, it was that Christmas equaled gifts. Of course, Mitchell probably wasn’t expecting anything (though George would no doubt get him something) but Annie would. Absolutely, Annie would. And truly, George had nothing against getting her something. The problem was, what? Clothes and jewelry were out, for obvious reasons, as were chocolates and wine, all reliable stand-bys for gifts. 

Maybe something for the house, he considered. She did spend most of her time here. 

And then there was the biggest issue: money. It wasn’t like they were destitute. They had a comfortable home, food on the table, enough for a night out here and there. But there wasn’t a whole lot left over at the end of each week. 

Then again, George sort of prided himself on being an experienced patron of the secondhand shops of Bristol, and he always stopped whenever he saw a street vendor. He’d been quite pleased with a number of things he brought home. He knew where to find the best used books, and “pre-owned” clothing that still had the tags. He’d spent so much time in the secondhand record store that the boys who worked there let him go through the recent acquisitions before they sorted them onto the shelves. And he somehow was able to spot the hidden treasures under the dust. 

But treasure-hunting took time, something else he didn’t have in abundance.

George sighed, and tried to put his trust in fate.

++++

Mitchell took the offered teacup from Annie and sipped very gingerly. Last night had been bad. He’d been working late at the hospital, and though he’d tried his best to avoid A&E, as usual, there’d been a multi-car accident, and he’d been shanghaied by a doctor to push gurneys. 

The amount of blood down there had nearly done him in.

Later, after fleeing the hospital and walking the streets, shaking, for hours, he’d gone into a café for coffee to steady himself. But the server had come in from an all-nighter herself, barely sober and still smelling of sweat and passion. Her heartbeat pounded in his ears, and he knew he’d barely escaped before he’d lost control.

He’d never been more relieved to return home, to its familiar comfort. He counted himself as extraordinarily lucky to have come into this circumstance. Every other time he’d tried to break his addiction he’d been alone, and without support he hadn’t held out long. Now he had two friends who cared for him and wanted him to succeed, but more importantly were not temptations to failure.

Annie, caring and gentle, but completely unalive, so nothing to crave. And George, alive, yes, but something about his werewolf nature made him off-limits as far as Mitchell’s thirst went.

They would never understand exactly how grateful he was for them, simply for being _what_ they were. And who. It was as though the universe had finally taken a hand in breaking his addiction.

Annie’s Christmas plan couldn’t have come at a better time. Humans always had such high emotions at this time; it made them more physical, more reckless, more open, more exuberant. More vulnerable, in other words.

Preparing for the holiday had given him something to do, and a reason to stay in. And truth to tell, it had been nice. The scents of balsam and cocoa filled the house, and Annie’s excitement had been infectious, at least for Mitchell.

If he could only get George on board.

Mitchell could tell he was trying, he really was, but he was stuck between Annie’s enthusiasm for familiar tradition and Mitchell’s anticipation for something new, and he just wasn’t feeling it.

As Mitchell considered what he might do to draw George out, the object of his contemplation took his seat at the breakfast table and gave Mitchell a thorough once-over.

“You okay?” George asked, and Mitchell realized he must look like utter shit.

“I am now,” he said, and his smile, while weak, was genuine. “Rough night,” he added, and George nodded sympathetically.

“When’s your shift today?” George asked, taking a cup of tea from Annie with a nod of thanks.

“Overnight,” Mitchell said, and George patted him on the arm.

“Go sleep for today, then,” George said. “I’ll wake you when I get in this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” Mitchell said, and though he soon crept to bed, he found he couldn’t sleep until he’d made the perfect plan.

++++

December crept by, the days getting darker and colder, and George found that his usual walk home from work, the twenty minutes of his day that helped clear his head and instill a calm sense of well-being, had taken a depressing turn. It seemed no matter what time his shift began or ended, he walked in darkness. The steep roads were slick with frost, and the wind howled up off the river, freezing his ears and nose and fingers till they stung.

He turned into their street, grateful that the wind was blocked from this direction, and raised his eyes from the downward squint he’d had for most of his walk. Their little house, so brightly painted, seemed to glow with a light of its own in the gloaming. The windows shone gold from the Christmas tree, and George found himself smiling in anticipation of warmth and comfort and a really hot cup of tea.

Then he got closer, and saw something in the front window that made him gasp in a breath of shock. He covered the last dozen yards at a run.

He half-fell through the front door, about to call for Mitchell and Annie, when shock stopped him short again. The house was filled with the aroma of frying potatoes, a scent that too George back to childhood, and family. He could nearly hear his Gran and Aunties chattering away in the mysterious language only the older relatives seemed to know.

He turned to the kitchen, drawn slowly, as though dreaming, through to it, and found Mitchell and Annie helping a tiny, white-haired woman at the stove. 

“That’s right, dear,” the lady said. “Don’t let them get too brown. Then put them on the towels to drain the fat.”

George found his voice. “What’s going on?”

The three turned to him, and Mitchell broke into a wide grin. “George, come on in. This is a friend of mine, Mrs Blumberg. I asked her by to…” Mitchell’s smile turned embarrassed. “Well, you can see for yourself.”

Mrs Blumberg removed her oven mitts and extended one hand to George. “Shalom, George,” she said. “I’m so happy to meet you. Your friends have told me all about you.”

George looked at the faces around the room helplessly. “How..?”

Annie raised her hands in mock surrender. “Don’t look at me,” she said. “It was all Mitchell’s doing.”

George felt himself steered into one of the kitchen chairs, and Annie placed a plate of latkes in front of him while Mitchell uncorked a bottle of wine. George noticed there was already smoked salmon and red cabbage salad, still in the deli containers, laid out on the table. 

Mrs Blumberg crossed to the icebox and asked, “do you take sour cream or applesauce with your latkes?”

George felt as though he’d been spun around very fast and brought to a sudden stop. “Applesauce,” he managed to stammer, and Mrs Blumberg chuckled.

“I thought so,” she said. “You look like an applesauce sort of boy.” And she brought a bowl of each topping to the table, placing the applesauce closest to George.

Mitchell had begun pouring the wine, and put a glass at each place. The acidic bouquet rose to George’s face to mix with the fried oil from the latkes, and the nostalgia washed over him in waves.

“Please, sit down, Mrs Blumberg,” Mitchell said, gallantly offering a chair.

“Oh, no, the taxi is picking me up soon to go to my son’s,” she said. “I’m afraid I can’t stay.”

As if on cue, a car horn sounded from the street, and Annie fetched Mrs Blumberg’s wrap and saw her out. 

George felt a bit foolish, sitting there, blinking in confusion, especially after Annie and Mitchell had joined him, and Mitchell started tucking into the latkes with gusto (he was a sour cream man, not surprisingly.) 

“You know,” Mitchell said, “this wine is surprisingly good.”

George stared at him. “How, Mitchell,” he said. “How did you do this? And why?”

Mitchell looked at him and smiled.

++++

_Mitchell was sure that the staff at Max Solomon’s Kosher Butcher and Market was mere minutes away from calling the police and having him arrested for loitering, but he didn’t know what else to do. It had seemed like a good plan: run down to the market, grab some traditional food and one of those special candleholders and surprise George when he got home from work. In fact, he’d been so pleased with the plan that he’d completely neglected to think through the ramifications of walking into a shop crammed full of religious symbology. He hadn’t made it ten feet in the door before he’d nearly collapsed, and barely made it outside again, where he’d clung to a lightpost and panted for several minutes, regaining his strength._

__Idiot, _he told himself._ Just because you can carry George’s Star of David in your pocket doesn’t mean you’re immune. __

_So now he was pacing around the sidewalk, trying to see what they had through the steamed-up windows and wondering if he could ask another shopper to make the purchases for him,like a kid on the make for liquor. He felt like a fool, and was sure the butcher would be seeing him off with a cleaver if he kept it up._

_“Are you waiting for someone?”_

_Mitchell looked up to see a tiny, white-haired woman squinting at him from the other side of the doorway._

_“No, I’m not,” he said, then decided to take a leap. “I have this friend, a good friend. He’s away from his family, but I wanted to do something for him. But, he’s Jewish, you see, and I’m not…”_

_Mitchell’s charm worked as well on Mrs Blumberg as it worked on everyone, and within a few minutes she’d popped back into the market for some food and wine, some candles, and a nice, traditional Menorah AND had agreed to come round and fry up some latkes. In return, Mitchell was more than happy to carry her groceries home for her._

++++

After Mitchell told his story, George had seemed almost overcome. He took Mitchell’s and Annie’s hands each in turn and said heartfelt thank-yous in a voice thick with emotion. Annie thought he might even cry, which was sure to set her off, too, but he managed to hold it together.

Later, he excused himself and went up to his room, only to come back down a moment later holding a small folded bit of material. He borrowed Mitchell’s lighter and went to where the Menorah had been placed in the front window, then unfolded the material into a small, round cap and placed it on his head.

Annie felt strange watching him, as though she were intruding, but George seemed surprisingly unselfconscious, lighting the candles and speaking what she supposed was some sort of prayer aloud.

“Baruch ata Ado-nai, Elu-heinu Melech ha’olam…”

He folded his hands and bowed his head, and just stood quietly for a long time. Occasionally he would nod or murmur under his breath. Then he put out the candles and took a seat on the couch. He looked at Annie and smiled fondly, then removed his cap and folded it. He turned it slowly in his hands.

Mitchell came in from the kitchen with more wine, handed a glass to George and took a seat beside him. George gave him a smile, as well. 

“Thank you,” George said. “Really, it means a lot to me.”

“Happy to do it,” Mitchell said. “I know your faith is important to you.”

Annie leaned forward. “I don’t want to be rude,” she said. “But… were you praying?”

George seemed startled by the question, but nodded. “It’s traditional Hebrew.”

“No, after,” Annie said. “I saw… sorry. I was just wondering… what did you pray for?”

George leaned back, thoughtful, and took a sip of wine. “I don’t really pray _for_ things,” he said. “Not like that. I was just… thankful.”

Mitchell looked over, frowning. “Thankful for what?”

“For the two of you,” George said. “For your friendship and support. For this house. For a stable job that lets me work around… my issues.” He lowered his voice. “That we’re all still safe,” he added.

“I’ll drink to that,” Annie said, and Mitchell raised his glass.

George took another sip of wine, and Annie thought she had never seen him look so content. It looked good on him.

++++

Christmas plans continued apace, with Annie planning obsessively, but Mitchell was pleased that George seemed more enthusiastic about her plans. He grumbled, of course, because that was his way, but he let her send him all over the neighborhood to fetch ingredients for their meal and special decorations.

Then, each night for a week, they would observe George’s tradition. Mitchell found himself looking forward to this time, a little island of calm in the frenzy that was their lives. When the holiday came to an end, Mitchell knew he would miss it. 

And he was quickly dismayed to find he wasn’t wrong. As Christmas came ever closer, Annie became more anxious and emotional. He and George tried to reassure her, but once the words “perfect Christmas” passed her lips, Mitchell knew the battle had been lost. There wasn’t anything he and George could do but stay out of her way.

Christmas Eve both of them were working at the hospital, and the patients coming through ranged from the tragically funny (one fellow who broke his collarbone after a fall from the roof while playing Santa) to the just plain tragic. By the time the boys climbed the stoop to the front door, they were ready for several glasses of holiday cheer and a long winter’s nap.

The house was quiet when they entered, and the tree filled the living room with a warm glow. Wine and glasses had been set out on the coffee table, and Mitchell noticed two wrapped packages under the tree. 

George called for Annie, and she drifted in from the kitchen, smiling. 

“I think I’m ready for dinner tomorrow,” she said. “Things are… prepared.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Mitchell said, taking a seat and reaching for the wine bottle.

George sat beside him and Annie went to the tree, smiling even more widely.

Mitchell pretended to suddenly notice her. “I know you can’t join us in a drink,” he said, “but was there something you had in mind.” 

“Well, I know we never discussed it,” she said. “But I hope you don’t mind. I made you some presents.” She knelt by the tree and handed the wrapped presents to Mitchell and George.

“Wait a moment,” George said, rising and heading up the stairs. He returned a moment later with two gifts of his own. “I thought it was Christmas morning that gifts were exchanged,” he said.

“It depends,” Annie said. “Families with kids usually wait until Santa Claus supposedly brings the gifts, but once my sister and I were older, we always did it Christmas Eve.”

If Mitchell could have blushed, he would have. “I didn’t think we were exchanging gifts,” he said. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” Annie said. “It’s not like I can use anything, anyway.”

“And technically, I shouldn’t even be handing out Christmas gifts,” George said. “Consider these a token of friendship. Something I saw at the shops and couldn’t resist.”

Annie waved her hands encouragingly towards them. “Well, go ahead,” she said, and the two men tore the wrapping open. 

Mitchell unwound a long, red scarf, while George pulled out a dark blue wool cap. Mitchell immediately threw his around his neck, delighted. “Did you knit these?” he said.

“Well, crocheted,” Annie said. “But yes.”

“This is amazing,” George said, trying on the cap. “Just what I needed. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like them,” she demurred.

George handed over his gifts. “Well, they’re not as nice as yours,” he said, “but…”

“Shh, shh,” Annie said. “It’s the thought that counts.” And she and Mitchell tore open their packages.

Mitchell had a small stack of video discs. He sorted through them, reading the titles. “Charlie Chaplin? Buster Keaton?”

“Gareth at Rewind Records thought you might like them,” George said. “I told him how much you liked the Laurel and Hardys, and he said to give these a try.”

Mitchell grinned. “I will. Thanks.”

Annie frowned at her gift, a complicated arrangement of glass beads, wire, and fishing line. “What is it?”

“It’s to hang in the window,” George said, taking it from her and suspending ti from his fingers by one slender filament. What had seemed to be a handful of random items suddenly assembled themselves into a delicate mobile that rotated gently, catching the light and bouncing it around the room.

“I know how much you like the tree,” George said. “I thought this might remind you of it the rest of the year.”

Annie seemed to be tearing up. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”

Mitchell reached for the wine again and poured out glasses for George and himself. “Here’s to a lovely Christmas,” he said. “And better things for all of us in the coming year.”

“Cheers,” George said, and the three of them sat in companionable silence, simply enjoying being in the company of one another until the church bells calling for Midnight Mass began to ring.

++++

George had planned to sleep in the next morning, rising slowly and maybe cooking himself and Mitchell a nice, proper breakfast, with crisp bacon and maybe some fried tomatoes. But when he heard the clank of at least three pots hitting the kitchen floor, he knew it was not to be.

Still yawning, he stepped into the hall in robe and slippers. Mitchell poked his head out of his room. 

“Annie?” ha asked, and George nodded.

“I’m on it,” George said.

He found Annie at the stove, holding a pan with both hands while she tried to pour *something* boiling over a pan of bread cubes.

“Annie, let me help you,” George said, taking the pan deftly from her and adjusting the heat on the burners in one motion.

“I can do this, George,” Annie insisted. “I’ve made meals before.”

George regarded her with a serious expression. “Have you ever done a full-course Christmas dinner?”

“…No,” Annie admitted.

“Well, I imagine it’s a bit more difficult than your usual chicken and rice casserole, don’t you?”

Annie pouted, but reluctantly agreed.

George looked over her menu, which was written neatly on a piece of green cardboard. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s our plan of attack…”

The work was divided, and though one or the other occasionally had to move from stove to table to counter, it all finished at more or less the same time. Mitchell helped George carry the table into the living room, and Annie spread it with a new red tablecloth, bought special for the occasion.

“This smells amazing,” Mitchell gushed, as Annie presented the golden-brown turkey on a platter.

George took the carving knife and began slicing the meat, and Annie fetched the rest of the dishes—mashed potatoes for Mitchell, parsnips for George, stuffing, peas, rolls, and wine to round it out—and brought them to the table. The two men ate heartily, and Annie watched, delighted to just be with them.

And later, they actually did watch Christmas specials on the telly.


End file.
